


Riddler Blurb - Quiz Game

by EnigmatiCiphers



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC - Fandom
Genre: Implied Murder, The Riddler - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmatiCiphers/pseuds/EnigmatiCiphers
Summary: This is a dated Riddler work that I've decided to publish. I've been thinking about working on a story involving Riddler, I'm just not sure if my interpretation measures up.Thank you for reading!
Kudos: 1





	Riddler Blurb - Quiz Game

And so it began.  
  
A muted static buzzed from the speakers as his monitors surged to life. Edward’s eyes shifted from screen to screen, studying the variation between them. Boredom. He felt himself weighted down by the heavy tug of his own apathy. The fuzzy screens flickered with the movement captured by each CCTV camera. Humming silence filled the speakers; yet, Edward could hear every thought which crossed the man’s mind. The sickly predictability which oozed from him; the gears within his small mind whirling as he tried to make sense of the situation. The concrete rooms were barren; cold and quiet foriegn ground. Silent desperations called for something divine; a wordless god who allowed for their capture _\--allowed for Edward to turn ill._  
  
Edward’s lip curled into a simper. The swollen press of pride was heavy in his chest. He leaned forwards, slouching over himself as he leaned the side of his face into the palm of his hand. In these bitter, clinical settings it was Edward Nygma who felt the ichor surging through his veins. The self-indulgence of a boy who counted on none but his own word for fulfillment.  
  
He muttered into the speaker, “Good evening, Officer Henry. You may not remember me, but I remember you. Believe me, I would _**love**_ to take the time to catch up. To ask about your wife and kids, exchange photo albums, _but you simply don’t have the time.”_  
  
  
A heavy sigh lifted from his shoulders as a shattered laugh tumbled out from his frame. The gravel behind Edward’s throat loosened as he went on, “The room that you’re in, Henry, is filled with a slow acting nerve gas. I wouldn’t worry about that. All you have to do is **think**.”  
  
He leaned forwards, planting his hands against the table. Edward’s face pushed closer to the screen. Fixed on those flickering features. How little they looked from the camera. Just a tiny man whose life now hung in the balance. One act of mercy could save him. One moment of repentance; forgiveness. Edward’s face became marred with distaste as he scoffed, “That’s hard for you. To think. To push yourself to comprehend ANYTHING beyond yourself. How SIMPLE is your mind, Henry? I pity you. To live so witless. Over forty years of life, never having a true thought.”

The speakers hissed, catching the echoed noise within that room, _“What do you want from me?”_

A bite in that tone. How sharply it crackled. Wet and dripping with anger. _How dare he_. Edward’s hand balled up into a fist. His knuckles flushed white with anger, the edges of his nails pushing into the skin of his palms. He slammed his clenched hand into the table. A spray of spit graced the monitor as he barked, “I want you to LISTEN to me.”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. Regain composure. In and out. Edward has to continue. Coat his throat in honey, slip on his slyest smile and carry on. He was so much more than common. He bit down into a grimace. Spoken through a harsh toothy grin, “I have keys but no locks, space but no rooms, and you may enter but you cannot go outside. What am I?”  
  
“Could—could you repeat that?”  
  
Fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. Laughter caught in his throat. What a fool. How lowly this beast was; simple-minded and doting. Edward would repeat only once for the buffoon, taking the time to slow his syllables for the dried prune that was Henry’s brain—  
  
“I have keys but no locks, space but no rooms, and you may enter but you cannot go out-side. What am I, Henry? Do you know that it’s more than time you're wasting, or are you that oblivious?”  
  
The monitor buzzed. The Officer lifted himself off of the concrete floor, stepping over to a corner of the room, peering into the camera. _‘Oh, no, no, no, you cannot offer me your dewy eyes. My heart does not bleed for you, Officer,’_ he thought to himself, a self-satisfied simper rested upon his face, _‘This room will be your grave if you are so careless.’_  
  
“You said you know me,” Henry began, the waver in his tone more than telling. He was already cracking beneath the pressure. “You’re right—I don’t remember you, but you could remind me, we could figure something out. I can help—“  
  
“STOP,” Edward snarled, “Spare me your pathetic attempts of reason. It’s not becoming of you. You never helped me then, why should you now? _Answer. The. Riddle._ ”  
  
“What? This is insane—“  
  
The static press of his laughter filled the room. Stress hid behind each chuckle. It ate at him. How his one participant refused to play along. Silence soon enveloped the two. As the minutes drained, Edward found himself impatient. Antsy in his seat. How SLOW someone could be. Until, as Henry lay on the floor, propped up by the wall, there came sweet release—  
  
“A keyboard—it’s a keyboard right? It’s got keys, a space—and an enter button.”  
  
“Ding! Ding! Ding! You are correct, Henry! On to the next question: What gets wet while drying?”  
  
There was a hitch in the man’s tone, disbelief washing over him as he replied, “well—that’s a towel.”  
  
“ _Right again._ What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in a thousand years?”  
  
“The letter M.”  
  
It went on like this. As if, suddenly this officer had miraculously grown a brain. Edward wasn’t sure what bothered him more: when the man refused to play or when he was excellent at his own game. He should have let him out by now. Given him the prize of life. Edward was fighting himself. Gripping at the desk and biting down at his frustrations.  
  
He drummed his fingers against the neck of the microphone, muttering into it, “Congratulations: you’ve won yourself a bonus round.”  
  
He spoke very quickly, restless and giddy to stump this buffoon, “I have a calculator that can display ten digits. How many different ten-digit numbers can I type using just the 0-9 keys once each, and moving from one keypress to the next using the knight’s move in chess?”  
  
Silence proceeded. The lifeless buzz of an empty room. Edward glanced over to the clock. The hours had drained so quickly. A minute more. The seconds spilled out from the clock. “Henry, it would seem that we are out of time,” he rasped before standing from his chair. 12:00:00. The light was shut off. The cameras now obscured by the cloak of darkness.  
  
Suppose that the saying was true: **The house always wins.**


End file.
